


Year One

by suavebadass



Category: X-Men: First Class (2011) RPF
Genre: Angst, M/M, Post-Apocalypse, Zombies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-30
Updated: 2012-07-30
Packaged: 2017-11-11 01:31:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,737
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/472981
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/suavebadass/pseuds/suavebadass
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For the Spring McFassy Fest, prompt #16: Our boys surviving in a zombie-filled, post-apocalyptic world.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Year One

When they arrive at the airport, drenched in sweat and with nothing but the clothes on their backs it’s too late.  They watch as what was supposed to be the last flight out of LAX—and the US—nose dives, becomes nothing more than twisted clumps of metal and black smoke on the tarmac miles away.

Michael and James are far from the only audience. The group of Army men—Or where they Air Force?—Michael has no idea—watch silently along with families sob as the flames engulf the plane wreckage, their children either shocked into silence or crying. Entire families are tagged with red plastic wrist bands and some with only one or two people, others with just the children tagged.

One of the Army men walks up to them, M16 in hand, “Have you two been screened?”

“Of course we have.” James lies to him effortlessly, ignoring the tension twisting up his gut. Over the man’s shoulder he can see two other Army men conversing in the corner, one of them on a cell phone. Even without his minimal knowledge of American Military, it’s easy to tell that they’re high ranking.

“You’re lying, I know because I saw you two get here less than twenty minutes ago. But it doesn’t fucking matter anymore does it?”  The man replies, and when he looks up at them the red rings blotting the edges of his irises is undeniable.

He breaks out into a twisted, broken grin, “We’re fucked. Every single one of us is _fucked_. Do you think any of us are going to leave this place alive now, infected or not?”

Michael and James run, not staying long enough to see the ranking officer from afar nod to the others looking at him for orders. To see as he pulls out his berretta and starts to fire a round into one of the civilians. Not seeming to care that the person wasn’t tagged with a wrist band and it’s perfectly clear what their orders from up top are.

There are screams and more gunfire, others running close behind them. Bullets fly past their heads and Michael grabs James, shoving him into the handicapped restroom and locks the door behind them. It creaks on its hinges from the number of people banging on it from the outside, crying, and begging for safety.

James reaches undo the lock but Michael shoves him back, “Open it! We have room for a few more!”

“Are you out of your damn mind?! Do you _want_ to get shot?!”

“ _Michael_ —”

“NO!” Michael screams, trying to be heard over the gunfire and cries outside. “I’m not about to let us—let _you_ —get shot!”

They stare down each other for beat before James tries again. This time Michael grabs him and holds James back against the wall and then they’re yelling, screaming at each other obscenities and insults, words that bite and that they’ll regret not even minutes from now.

It’s in that moment they realize how eerily quiet it is outside and it makes them both freeze like animals caught in headlights.

“Quick, the light!” James practically dives for the switch, and then they’re swallowed up by darkness as footsteps being to approach.

They huddle together in the farthest corner of the room, and from the bottom crack in the door they watch the silhouette of feet go back and forth. Inhuman groans start to fill the silence, followed by cursing and gunfire once again.

Michael tightens his grips on James and though James doesn’t fight the embrace, Michael can feel his glare burning into him through the dark. They sit there and wait for silence.

 

Hours later, Michael wakes up to find that James is gone from his side, with the door propped wide open. He stumbles out in a panic and thankfully doesn’t have to go far to find James.

James is curled up in one of the seats at the terminal surrounded by bodies. The noon sun blazes through the airport deck windows and glares harshly off the leathery-brown bodies scattered around them. Michael tries carefully to step over them all as he makes his way toward James, but has to ignore the crunching of bone and crackling dry skin, with the particles of it all floating up into the air and into his nostrils more then he would ever care to think about.

“You’re a bastard. A real fucking _bastard_ , you know that?” James says as Michael sits next to him.

Michael locks away the hurt that stabs through his chest at that and shrugs, “Well, at least I’m a bastard that’s still alive. I guess that makes you one, too.”

James leans into Michael, resting his head on his shoulder. A few moments later James lets out a crushed sob into Michael’s neck, and it’s too much for him. He brings an arm around James’s shoulders and looks away, but only gets a dead stare from a woman lying at his feet, her caved in skull and mouth split open in a silent scream, in return.

The body next to her starts to move, his face twisted and mushed to gory pulp. His neck is broken, and the bones grind loudly against one another, hollowed out throat convulsing.  He lets out a wheeze—and it’s not exactly exhaling, so much as deflating what was left of their last breath before…this. They squirm in place, and it’s all the body can do while trapped under the piles of other dead.

Before Michael can say or do anything, James is up and smashing the head in with the heel of his boot. The squelching of their brains and the thick, brown-black ooze that seeps from their bodies makes Michael’s stomach roil, but he’s able to contain himself.

The body has long since stopped moving now, but James doesn’t let up on his assault on it.

“James, we have to leave. _James._ ”

One last stomp, and James lets out a shaky breath, “Yeah, okay. Let’s get the hell out of here.”

He makes no move to leave however. James simply stands there, swaying almost, his breathing shallow and eyes wide, unseeing.

Michael doesn’t think about how much effort it must be taking James to just give up, if the misplaced guilt is making him want to crawl into the pile of bodies and join them. Doesn’t think about the friends and family he has on the other side of the world that are probably all dead, and if the government over there cares more for its people or not.  Refuses to wonder how many people could have been saved if he had listened to James and opened that damned door.

Instead he stands, takes James gently by the arm, and leads him back out.

 

Being on the road with your motorcycle, the clothes on your back, and a small box full of only the most necessary items is something Michael is intimately familiar with, and in a way it’s comforting to him. He can almost pretend he’s on just another cross country road trip, but instead of his father he’s with James. Going on a motorcycle trip like this had been an idea the two had toyed with for ages and the warm weight of James, pressed against his back, arms around his waist is a relief. Michael could easily sag into the embrace and get lost in it if he didn’t need to pay attention to the road.

James, however, doesn’t share much of Michael’s sentiments. While the bike was perfect for them to get out of the city and easier to maneuver around anything the roads were blocked with (highways packed full of now useless cars, streets littered with bodies, with monsters), the lack of storage space is more than annoying and sleeping outside was not as thrilling as Michael tries to make it out to be.

The only reason any of it was even remotely tolerable was because James feels like he could just about bear anything if Michael is with him. Especially so when Michael was the one _doing_ the things that he had to tolerate. There are some nights when they layout to sleep on the one blanket they have, wrapped up in each other, breath syncing up as they drift off, James finds he suddenly doesn’t mind the outdoors that much at all.

 

The roar of the motorcycle’s engine has attracted more than its fair share of strangers and the dead. James isn’t sure what’s worse to deal with: The skulls that they have to crush in with their baseball bats when it becomes their last resort, or the people they have to leave behind on the sides of the roads.

Some people they come across are on their own, content to barter off items and go on their way. Some flag them down just to stop and chat, sharing the safest routes to wherever it is they need go. Michael doesn’t stop for the ones with families, who hold up their children, begging them to take them somewhere safe. Nor do they stop for those that scream, and cry, fall to on their knees to plead for help.

Those times, Michael looks straight ahead, silent with James’s arms around him locked in a death grip, and both don’t ever, ever talk about it.

 

It’s well into daybreak when they come across an empty campsite. Or to be precise, what’s left of a campsite. Tents ripped to shreds, trash scattered everywhere, with a fire in its last dying embers and the sickening stench of death that they've become so familiar with blanketing everything.

James calls out, “Hello, anyone?”

There’s no one.

A van is parked nearby, covered in black, mucky entrails. The back of it is opened and from the looks of it had been in the middle of being raided. A jeep is parked next to in an even worse state, thick black smoke billowing out from under the engine’s hood. Two undead are aimlessly wandering the camp and all it takes to finish them off is a few straight forward thwacks of a shovel James had found next to the campfire. He severs the heads with it and tosses them into the new flames Michael ignites in the fire pit without batting an eye.

They both loathe walking through anymore of the camp more than need be, but everything needs checking over. It’s important to find anything that’s salvageable and anything that rises and moves when it’s not supposed to needs to be taken care of.

“It’s not stealing when none of it is of any use to them if they’re dead or abandoned it.” James rationalizes more for his own state of mind, yet Michael can do nothing but nod solemnly in agreement.

The furthest tent out is surprisingly free of damage, and when they go inside, there is a woman and man with two children huddled together in a mess of bedding and sheets. If you ignored the holes in their temples and the gun resting in the man’s hand, it looked as if they were all still asleep, only waiting for someone to come and wake them.

Michael takes one look at them and storms out of the tent with James close behind, “Shit! God _damnit!_ ”

After Michael has stopped swearing and James stops shaking from pent up fury, they go through the van. James pointedly not watching as Michael throws anything that’s useless or covered in gore out of it. A pile of red stained blankets patterned with cartoon characters, toys, stuffed animals, family photo albums, and unfortunately a few boxes of food. Any books covered in gore or no, stay. They have too much precious information about wilderness survival and plant life to be let go because of a few stains. The van’s back seats take a few minutes of frustration and cursing to throw out, but it’s worth it for a more secure sleeping space. It was going to be a bit cramped for two grown men, but Michael clings and James practically sleeps on top of him most nights, so for them it would be perfect.

When they pick apart the Jeep, they find practically an armory of weapons.

Guns were something they had been putting off for as long as possible. Because guns needed ammo, and ammo ran out. It didn’t help that every weapons store they had come across had been wiped clean of everything useful. Even abandoned police stations and related vehicles had little to nothing of value anymore. It was a marvel they had been able to survive off just two worn down metal bats that they had happened upon for so long.

“Talk about convenient,” Michael says while picking up the shotgun. “Who do you think these guys were? Criminals, police, or maybe they were republican?”

James tries to squash down a chuckle at that last part and be serious, “Be careful with that, these aren't Hollywood props filled with blanks.”

“That may be true, but you've had _some_ gun training right? You weren't allowed to just throw guns around on the set of Wanted all willy-nilly now were you? They didn't let me do those knife acrobatics in Haywire for all of five seconds without making me practice for hours beforehand.”

James bristles at that, not knowing what part of that sentence to address first: The fact that Michael just used the phrase ‘willy-nilly’ seriously or that he’s seen _Wanted_ and never told James about it until just now and why didn't he tell him sooner?

“I did, but that’s not the point. Have you ever shot at something—at some _one_ —with real bullets before? I never have.”

Michael unloads the shotgun with ease and rolls his eyes, “Okay, so I haven’t either. Nothing a little practice won’t fix now, hm?” He waggles his eyebrows at James while unloading the handguns.

In the end Michael only takes what they really need, the shotgun and two of the handguns. He doesn't cheat out on the ammo however, and employs James to help him store it in various hiding spots inside the van.

James had thought that Michael would be vehemently against leaving his bike behind, countless arguments previous always pointed in that direction, but in fact Michael is the one to suggests it. Leaving it meant there would be one less thing to worry about eating up gas. Michael sticks the keys in the ignition and makes sure it has at least half a tank, with a note that simply says ‘take if you need’. The finality of way he looks at it as he runs his hand over the leather seat makes James almost feel bad for him. Almost.

Michael wants to burn the bodies, James wants to bury them. Neither have it in them to argue about it for long. In the end they wrap them in the already dirty blankets and few sheets they can spare, line them up one by one off the side of the road and hope that can be enough.

 

They theorize about what could have happened at that camp, how long it might have been like that before they had come across it. Whatever the case was, they decide to be wearier of large groups of people even more so than they already were. It meant having to take longer routes and back roads surprisingly more times than thought. People were of the belief that the larger their group, the better chance of survival, that there was safety in numbers.

Yet the times when screams and sometimes gun fire in the distance wake them at night, both know better than to believe that idea was full proof.

 

Sometimes, Michael wonders if the only reason he and James are still together is because of—this. If things were still normal, would they even bother spare a thought for one another at this point? Would that road trip he had been planning in his head for months have ever properly happened? Or would they have broken it off long before that, time apart filming their respective movies finally consuming the little time they tried to save for each other.

Does James love him still?

Does he even love James anymore?

Introspection is something that Michael has been doing more and more of these days, and he can’t stand himself for it. It turns into anxiety that gnaws at the back of his mind and if James’s face when Michael gets like this any indication, he doesn’t care much for these moments either. They drive in silence through the long expanse of road that might as well lead them to nowhere.

“There is nothing in the desert, and no man needs nothing.” Michael mumbles. He suddenly longs for a cigarette.

“Oh, don’t even start with that.” And Michael can’t tell if James is being playful or serious (he used to know the difference, but that time feels so long ago now). Michael just gives a shrug that James doesn't pay attention to and turns back to look at the skyline drift by.

 

Small towns, gas stations, isolated suburbs; those were the places they usually raided for food and supplies. Never, ever did they try and raid the cities. They were too big, full of dead and too easy to get lost in. James drove around them or tried avoiding them all together.

Yet here they were parked 5 miles outside of one, making plans.

“We’re only going to search the most outer parts and we’ll be out before sunset.”  Michael tries to assure James, “Two or three blocks in and nothing further than that, deal?”

James really, really does not want to do this, but the last town they went through had turned up barely anything. Weeks of surviving on smaller and smaller rations of food and water were starting to take its toll on them both.

“Deal.” James resigns easily, the feel of protruding collar and hip bones springing vividly to his mind from where he traced his hands along Michael’s body last night. Briefly, he wonders what Michael sees when he looks at him. Neither has looked at his reflection properly since…James can no longer remember.

Getting through the highway was easy, what with most of it that was leading into the city practically empty, while the way out was overrun with cars. Cars which are probably still full with gasoline. Michael made a note to give them all a look through and grab more gas on the way back. 

While the city isn't void of the dead, they were only lightly scattered around the streets and taking them down or out running them when they can isn't a problem. They both had their handguns, and also the shotgun that both had silently agreed upon to be Michael’s as well as the bat that James kept close at all times.

The first street they hit contains a restaurant and some department stores which cause them to make two trips back to be able to carry everything: dried and canned food, clothes for the upcoming winter, new sheets along with bedding, razors so they can finally shave. 

Then they turn at the intersection and James and Michael freeze in place.

There are hundreds of undead standing together, swaying lightly with the wind. Despite the openness of the street they’re packed close, shoulder to shoulder. One of them is a small child; skin translucent from death and withered dry from the sun, blood caked thick on the side of his face. His sunken eyes are the first of the bunch to lock onto them and James and Michael’s instincts are already kicking in, they move before their minds can catch up to scream **_RUN_**.

Fear and adrenaline pumping through their veins are the only things keeping them going at this point, and it’s a wonder neither of them has forgotten the way they came from with how unfamiliar they are with the city. Turning back onto the next street they find themselves face to face with even more dead. The moans and cries of the ones behind them were attracting others nearby.

James grabs Michael and they make a sharp turn to enter an alleyway that they find is obstructed by a locked chain link fence. It’s old, withered and brittle with years of dark yellow rust layered into it.  It’s also padlocked shut, and Michael cocks the shotgun to attempt to shoot it off but before he can he sees James hop onto the fence.

“Don’t waste shells, just climb!” James says while doing just that.

Michael unloads the shotgun and tosses it over the fence before following after him. When they reach the end, they’re met with only garbage.  The doors are either locked or barricaded with wood, the only way to go is up. A row of windows looks down at them, teasing.

There was no guarantee that the building wasn’t full of more undead monsters, but it was the only way to get out now. They had to take the chance.

“Could you reach that window if I gave you a boost?”

James tries to calculate the distance up from the ground in his head, “Maybe.”

“C’mon, up you go.” Michael kneels down and James hesitantly climbs on so he’s standing on Michael’s shoulders. Michael struggles for a few seconds before he’s able to get back on his feet, James own feet digging into his shoulders is painful but it’s worth it to hear James say—

“I can almost reach it, just a little more!”

Michael slips his hands underneath James’s feet and pushes him higher up, “How about…now?”

“I got it!”

He hears the shattering of glass and the next thing Michael knows James is climbing through the window. That same moment he turns around in time to see the chain link fence being knocked over from the sheer weight of the dead all pushing on it to try and to get at them.

James sticks his head out the window to see what’s happened, “Michael—!”

“Leave!”

“Not without you! I’ll look for something to help pull you up!”

“There isn’t any time, GO NOW!” Michael shouts and begins shooting at the horde coming at him, “The car is just on the other side of the street isn’t it? Take it and _get the hell out of here!_ ”

When Michael doesn’t hear any protest from James he looks back up to find that he is gone.

Good.

The dead moan as they continue to get closer to Michael, and his aim isn’t as good as it should be, but with the burst range of the shotgun he can blast out the kneecaps of the ones that try to run at him from these ranges no problem and when did they start _running_? Michael has never seen any do that before until now. He shoots the head of a man a few feet away and it bursts like a water balloon at such close range, the body falls in writhing mess of blood.  

When he’s out of shotgun shells he drops the weapon and pulls the gun from his waist-band to start picking them off that way. Michael tries to get head shots in where he can, but the extra clip in his belt digging into his hip is a painful reminder that he doesn’t have nearly enough bullets to kill them all.

There is an odd sense of calm that creeps into Michael as he loads his final clip into the gun. It feels as if time is slowing down. Maybe it’s because it’s finally over, that after he uses this last round he can finally stop running. James was probably out of the city by now, and that more than anything helped. Michael cocks the gun and gets ready to fire one last time.

Suddenly there’s the throttle of an engine being pushed to its limit, the wet squelch-snap of decaying flesh and bone bursting from pressure. It’s so loud and grotesque that it snaps Michael out of his trance and he watches as James drives the van right down the alley towards him, barreling over every zombie in his path. It was close to a tight fit, but there was enough space for James to roll down the window, stick an arm and his head out and start picking off the ones smart enough to try and run away while mowing down the ones that weren't.

By the times James gets right to him Michael has picked up the shotgun and uses the butt of it to start beating the stragglers that James hadn’t managed to get. The damage to the van is surprising minimal for what it just went through. Cracks in the windshield, one of the headlights is busted and a few dents scattered around. None of the tires are blown out or are off their axils, which is a small miracle.

James turns on the windshield wipers to try and get the blood and carnage off so he can see again, each swipe making a comical high pitched ‘squeeeek’ and Michael doesn’t know if he should laugh or cry. He’s caught between the calm of accepting the fact that he was going to die and the shock of it not happening. The world tilts on its axis for a split second and he fights the feeling to keep his legs from giving out on him.

“What are you waiting for? Get in before more show up!” James shouts.

There’s one that is still alive, caught under the wheel. Her jaw snapping and teeth clacking loudly as she tries to claw her way out and Michael finishes her off with the butt of the shot gun before stumbling inside.

“Are you okay?” James is immediately on him, with hands all over, checking for any serious injuries. Michael is sweaty, covered in small scrapes and clothes stained with blood not his own. Overall, he is physically okay, and James lets out a sigh of relief.

“M’fine.” Michael mutters, trying to push James away, “I said I’m FINE. Let’s just get the hell out of here.”

James backs down, confused over Michael’s behavior, and they drive out of the city in silence. When he thinks they are at a safe distance out, James pulls over. Michael exits the car and slams the door so hard the whole thing rattles. James is just as pissed off now, and he goes after him without even having to think about it. He watches as Michael paces back and forth and before James can even say anything Michael is on him.

“You lunatic! What the hell were you thinking, why didn't you just drive away?!”

“Oh, _I’m_ the one that’s crazy? I could say the same bloody thing about you! What the fuck was that, Michael?! ‘Get the hell out of here!’” James mimics. He might be a few inches shorter, but it doesn’t stop him from getting as much in Michael’s face as he can. Michael tries to step away, but James doesn’t let it go.

“What do you think it was? I was trying to give you an escape, a way out! Why the fuck didn’t you take it?!”

“So you what you’re saying is…You _wanted_ me to leave you behind?”

Michael can’t bring himself to say the ‘ _yes’_ that’s on the tip of his tongue, but he can’t look James in the eye anymore, and that’s more an enough for James to get the hint. Roughly, James grabs him by the arms to pull him even closer. He pushes Michael back until he’s sitting on the hood of the van, grabs his face to bring their foreheads touching and Michael still can’t bring his eyes off the ground.

“Why, Michael?” James hisses, “ _Why?_ ”

The intensity of James’s stare finally causes Michael to look up, and he instantly regrets it. The genuine despair on James’s face right now couldn’t possibly match up to anyone else’s and it’s like a punch to the stomach to know that he was the one that caused James to have that face.

It’s impossible to tell who leans in first and who meets the other halfway, but the next thing they know their lips are colliding and moving sloppily against one another. Hands tangle through hair and tears streaking faces. Someone begins laughing—it’s James—and Michael breaks the kiss to pull him close.

“I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry.” Michael says, burying his face into the crook of James’s neck to hide the burning shame of ever making him go through this.

“You don’t—you—you don’t get to decide, okay? You don’t get to make those kinds of decisions or that kind of sacrifice for me. Do you understand? We’re equals, a team.” James’s laughter is borderline maniac. Michael is on the brink of joining him in it before he’s pulled in for another quick, off-center kiss, and “Well? Do you understand?”

There is so much Michael wants to say, but instead what he blurts out is, “I love you.”

“I know. That’s why you can’t go off and do things like that!” James slams his fist into the hood of the car and the outburst is so sudden Michael flinches.

“I won’t let you leave me behind in this wretched place.” James says, brushing a hand over Michael’s cheek to wipe away his tears. “If anything happened to you Michael, I would die. I would _die_.”

It’s the closest thing to a declaration of ‘I love you’ that Michael has heard from James in months, and he’s surprisingly okay with that.

 

They keep driving, and even though they don’t have one particular destination in mind, the direction that James has been trying to keep is north. Michael’s inexperience with American cars—driving anything that isn’t a golf cart or a motorcycle—has James behind the wheel more often than not, though he really doesn't mind. James finds it comforting, something that he can get lost in easily and do without much thought.

Michael at times will drape his arm over James’ shoulders when he thinks James is too tense, press his thumb into the back of his neck and rub the tension out. James will either bat Michael’s hand away and that’s when they both really know James is out of it, and Michael makes him pullover and kisses him until all the hate, anger, sadness over their situation that’s tightly contained within him is nothing but an afterthought. Or James will fall back into the touch and Michael will scoot himself over until he’s practically in James’s lap.  He’ll rest his head on James’s shoulder, and together they’ll quietly watch the landscape pass them by.

Then there are rare moments where Michael will plug in his i-pod (that he’s been protecting like it’s his child even though Michael fiercely denies it every time James brings it up) into the radio and makes James sing some Black Sabbath or Iron Maiden with him. At the end of each song Michael always thanks him with a kiss, and James finds that after everything—with everything that could possibly be waiting to happen—these are some of the best moments that are left to him, and he would do anything to keep them close.

 

One morning Michael ends up waking up James with hoarse coughing that he fails to muffle into his pillow. It’s loud and sounds painful enough to make James wince in sympathy. The now worn thin blankets aren’t enough to stave off the cold outside, but even if they were it wouldn’t stop James from rolling over to press himself up against the warm breadth of Michael’s back, wrapping himself around Michael completely.

“Are you okay?”

“Mm’fine.” Michael says, clearing his throat with another hacking cough, “Just a cold, that’s all.”

James kisses the nape of Michael’s neck, “I’m sure we’ll find a place soon. Get you some medicine.”

“Don’t worry ‘bout it. I’ll be over it in about a day or two.” Michael turns over to face James, slinging a long leg over his body and giving him a peck on the lips before drifting back to sleep.

 

It’s not ‘just a cold’.

 

It’s two weeks to the day, and James watches the rise and fall of Michael’s chest for a few more breaths before gently shaking him, “Hey, Michael. Michael? C’mon darling; it’s well past midday, time for us to wake up.”

Michael rolls over to face James, further tangling himself into the sheets. The color is nearly drained completely from his face, and it brings out the puffiness of his eyes, making them stand out like heavy bruises.  James leans over and runs a hand through the sweat soaked hair and allows a tight, thin smile to spread across his face.

“Five more minutes,” Michael mutters into James’s hand. His cracked, dry lips brushing against James’s skin make James pull his hand back like he’s been burned. Michael doesn’t notice; too busy trying to shove his face deeper into his pillow.

“Alright then, you get five more minutes and not a second over. I’ll be counting.”

“Of course you will.” Michael rasps between wet coughs.

James drives for another three hours before Michael wakes himself up with his own violent convulsions.

 

This town is the most rural of all that they have come across. Houses are nearly a mile apart from each other, all boarded up or full of those that had stayed dead or hadn’t been lucky enough to remain as such. The entire town was almost desolate, practically nothing of worth, and he still had yet to find any kind of clinic or hospital, and Michael needed that more than anything.

It’s the final house at the edge of this stretch of road, and if James doesn’t find something in here that can help Michael, he doesn’t know what he’ll do.

“I’ll just be a few minutes.” James says to Michael, who’s having his first peaceful sleep in days and doesn’t hear a word he’s said.

The front door is locked, but it’s of little concern to James, some of the others had been too. He smashes in the window next to it and climbs in. It’s cleaner than the rest of the homes that he’s come across. There are no layers of dust or the rank scent of rotting wood or flesh. No electricity, but there is running water, probably provided by a well nearby. A bit peculiar that there aren’t any family photos or artifacts around, but someone probably had gotten to this house before him. He comes upon a stair case and decided to save the second floor for after raiding the bathroom.

In the hallway, the sound a shotgun cocking ready to fire from behind makes James instinctively hit the ground for cover.

“What hell are you doing in my house?”

Slowly, with hands raised in surrender, James stands back up, turns around to see a man with a shot gun pointed right at his head. He’s just a little over James’ height, with a face withered from the sun and age, head full of dark grey, messy hair.

“You tryin’ to steal from me?”

James shakes his head, “Yes—No! I thought this house was abandoned.”

“Obviously it’s not.” The man keeps his shotgun pointed at him, “What are you doing here?”

“My Michael—my boy—I mean—my friend. My friend is really sick; I’m looking for medicine for him.” James tries to recover from his verbal blunder. People are becoming scarcer, yet it didn’t mean that prejudice was becoming just as uncommon.

“Please,” James steps forward and gets the barrel of the gun shoved in his face in return.

“I can barely understand your damn accent. Sick? How sick? Infected sick? Don’t lie to me or I’ll fucking kill you booth. I saw that van parked out front, he’s in there isn’t he?”

“NO!” James shuts down that line of discussion immediately, “He’s not infected, swear to God! He has a bad fever; chest is all clogged up too. His lungs rattle when he breaths; won’t stop coughing up blood and mucus either. These past few days it’s gotten really bad….I think he might have pneumonia.”

The two stand there in silence for a beat, “Please,” James tries again, “He’s _dying_.” And he’s still an actor, the end of the world or no goddamnit, and he can make himself cry when need be. Given the position he is in however, he doesn’t need to do much acting. He sinks down to his knees, “Please, we can’t make it by on our own for much longer.”

“Oh no, you’re not putting me in this position. Get the hell up, let’s go.” The man lowers his weapon.

James scrambles back to his feet, “Is that a yes?”

“I’ll drive with ya and show you the way to the clinic. I ain’t never really needed much from there for myself, so I don’t have any meds. The name’s Robert by the way.”

The nearest clinic turned out to be just a mile away, if James hadn’t thought to look into Robert’s house it would have been the next building he would have come across. James is glad he did find him though; he’s the first person he’s seen that isn’t Michael in months.

After it takes a massacre of the undead to get inside, Robert helps James find the clinic’s stock of antibiotics, medical textbooks and just about anything else James can think that he would need to care for Michael. By the time they’re done the clinic is completely wiped out, nothing left inside but those who have not needed any of the clinic’s services for a long time.

James gets a quick tour of the house once he’s gotten Michael settled and started on his medicine. A den, living room, kitchen and a tiny bathroom make up the first floor. The second has the master bedroom Michael is resting in, a small guest room and a bigger bathroom with a shower. It’s also where James stocked all of the medical supplies for easy access for Michael. The basement is under lock and key by Robert, and when they make their way down James is in awe of the amount of food, weapons, firewood, bedding, clothes and other supplies.

“I cleaned out just about the whole damn town.” Robert says with glee, which explained why everywhere else had been so empty.

“This is…amazing,” James is in awe, “Thank you. Thank you for everything.”

James could cry, but he keeps himself together as Robert bristles at the gratitude, “Oh, shut up already and help me pick out what we’re having for dinner.”

 

Michael feels like he’s been run over by the van twice over. Everything aches and he can’t keep his eyes open for more than a few minutes at a time. He has no idea where he is, but what he does know is that he’s in a bed and if he was coherent enough to appreciate that he would, but a bed means he’s not sleeping in the back of the car with James driving them out. It means that James isn’t near, that the worst has happened and that makes everything Michael feels double over.

He must have been crying at some point, because there are hands brushing his cheeks and a voice, “Ssh. It’s okay. I’m right here with you. We’re safe.”

Time has been abstract to him for what seems like ages, and he keeps waking up to someone shoving pills and water down his throat. He’s too weak to resist, but when it happens a third time he shoots his hand out to reach out at the man near his bedside.

The person takes his hand, squeezing it until it borders on painful, “Don’t worry; this medicine will make you better.” The voice tells him, “You’re gonna be alright now.”

Michael coughs, struggling to open his eyes. When he finally does all he sees is the dark silhouette of someone nearby, “James?” Warm lips brush his brow as his eyes falls shut of their own accord.

“Get some sleep, darling.”

 

Robert must have heard James coming down the stairs, because he asks, “How’s Michael?” before he even sees him enter the den.

“He’s sleeping.” James replies. He sits in the chair next to Robert and together they sit in silence for a long time, content to stare into the fire and be lost in their thoughts.

“Do you know the calendar date?” James finally asks. He had lost track of the days way before he and Michael had found that empty camp and he’s wanted to know it since Robert had accepted them into his home, but there have been more important things to attend to.

“November eighth.” Robert says, James nodding in reply.

“How cold does it usually get up here?”

“’Round the low thirties, on a bad day it can get below zero. We’ll start to get hit with snow in full force by the end of this month.”

James does the calculations to Celsius before asking, “Do you think that will slow down those monsters outside?”

“Hell yeah, it’s why I’ve parked my ass in this house as soon as I saw it the whole time this has been going on.”

James’s eyes widen in shock at the implication, “Wait, are you saying—”

“Ha! Did you think I _owned_ this place? Could you imagine a shmuck like me willingly living in this fancy community? Please.” Robert lets out another barking laugh, “No, no. I found this house empty about five months ago, been calling it home ever since.”

James doesn’t know what to say to that, so he asks another question, “What do you think started all this?”

Robert sighs, “Before the news stopped, they were saying it was biological weapon that the government accidentally let loose and _everyone_ is infected. We could be infected right now and when we die just rise back up. Some were claiming that it was terrorists. Or that someone just dropped dead, and got back up and started biting people. That it’s the bird or swine flu or the west nile virus or SARS gone mutated.”

He sighs, turning to James, “At this point, does it really matter how it started?”

“No, I suppose it doesn’t.” James says with a shrug, and returns to staring off into the flames.

 

Robert announces one morning that he’s going hunting later in the day and that James is more than welcome to join him. It’s the fifth offer James has gotten and like the last four times he politely declines it, not wanting to leave Michael alone for a second when he’s finally getting better. Michael’s fever is almost completely gone, and his coughing isn’t as ragged, but he still sleeps more than James is comfortable thinking about.

Robert only nods, and when he sets off to leave he shoves the key to the basement into his hands, “Just in case, don’t lose it,” He looks right into James’s eyes as he tells him.

“I won’t.” James swallows nervously, he’s never seen Robert look so serious. It is a serious matter though, with how many important things are down there.

Robert nods, “Good, gonna want that back when I return.” He says as he packs up the rest of his hunting gear. James looks out the window to watch him go, and gives one last wave to Robert when he looks back one last time before he’s swallowed up by the forest.

 

A full week passes before James finally accepts that he isn’t coming back. He thinks about at least making some kind of memorial for Robert, until he realizes that he didn’t even know the man’s last name. That in fact he knew almost nothing about him, and it was possible that Robert might have not even been his real name. James just says a prayer for him with the little faith he has left in God, and later that night crawls into bed next to Michael. He watches him sleep and suppresses a small, pathetic sound that wells up in the back of his throat when he thinks about how Michael will never be able to properly thank the man for saving his life.

 

Michael wakes up just in time to see James walk into the room with a tray full of food.

“Good morning, sunshine.” Michael teases, grabbing food the second the tray is placed next to him.

“’Morning.” James seals the greeting with a kiss, takes his place in the bed and with the tray between them they start to dig into their breakfast.

“So, what’s on today’s agenda? I think that we should…” Michael starts loudly between bites of powdered eggs, and suddenly James loses his focus on the words. He watches transfixed while Michael talks as usual, with his hands waving around and eyes bright.

There is so much that needs to be done, parts of the house that need to be looked over, food and ammo that needs restocking. Winter is starting to thaw out into spring now, which means that dead will be starting to thaw out as well. They would have to kill as many of them as they could before that happens. Michael had suggested that when the snow melts completely they could try to make a vegetable garden. The town they’ve been mooching supplies from is almost drained of everything, staying here might not even be a viable option for much longer.

They are all concerns that James pushes to the back of his mind when Michael starts gently shaking his shoulder to snap him out of his daze.

Michael looks at him curiously; he hasn’t seen James look at him like this in ages, “Something wrong?”

James shakes his head, “No. I just—I love you. That’s all, really.”

Michael’s smile has never failed to make James feel lighter, like he could float up and be content with burning to death from the intensity of it if he got too close. Right now he lets himself float up as his worries are completely forgotten in the moment, not caring about how hard the fall is going to be later on.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to [Seb](http://mostlymichaelfassbender.tumblr.com/) for beta and everyone else on tumblr who put up with my incessant whining and downward spiral as I was writing this.
> 
> To the anon that prompted this: I hope you liked it! At least a little bit ;A;


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